His smile turned too knowing, too familiar. "A busy teacher like you, probably doesn't get out much. All work and no play, right?"
Fiona's stomach dropped as she realized where this was heading. "Mr. Granger?—"
"Call me Troy." He moved closer, his voice lowering. "Look, I know teachers don't make much. But I do pretty well for myself.Maybe we could grab a drink sometime? Adult conversation, nice dinner. I could show you a good time."
Fiona opened her mouth to shut it down—firmly, professionally—but then he reached out and brushed her left hand, right over the bare spot where her wedding ring used to be.
Just a light touch. Two fingers, deliberate and lingering, as if to sayI noticed.
As if to sayYou're available to me now.
Her breath caught. Not from surprise—from disgust.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding," Fiona said sharply, yanking her hand back and moving to put the desk between them. "I'm Marcus's teacher. This conversation is completely inappropriate."
"Hey, hey." He held up his hands, that smirking half-apology men used when they didn’t want to admit wrongdoing. "It was a compliment. No harm in trying, right?"
Fiona didn’t answer right away. She was too busy scrubbing her palm against her skirt, trying to wipe off the skin-crawl.
"Goodbye, Mr. Granger," Fiona said, her voice nothing more than professional. "If you have any further questions about Marcus's progress, you can schedule another conference through the office."
His expression darkened. "Jesus. Don’t be a bitch. Lighten up—I was trying to be nice."
Nice. Like hitting on your child's teacher in her own classroom was a favor.
"Please leave," she said firmly.
He pushed off from the desk with exaggerated casualness. "Your loss, sweetheart."
After he left, Fiona closed her classroom door and stood in the center of her space—her safe, sacred space—letting herself be angry for a minute.
She thought about the old Fiona—the one who would have smiled and deflected, who would have worried about making him uncomfortable.
This Fiona knew better.
She opened her laptop and typed up an incident report for the principal. Professional. Factual. Unemotional.
But as the adrenaline faded, something else crept in. A bone-deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with the long day or difficult parent.
All she wanted was to go home.
Not to Emma's guest room with its borrowed comfort. And definitely not to the depressing studio apartment she'd looked at yesterday.
Home. To their apartment. To Dean waiting with coffee already made and arms that knew exactly how to hold her when the world felt sharp around the edges. To the safety of being known completely, protected completely.
How was that still her first instinct? After everything—after the betrayal, after the humiliation—how was Dean still the person she wanted to run to when she felt unsafe?
She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing the feeling away.
Because she wasn't available. Not for Troy with his wallet and his 'sweetheart.' Not for anyone who saw her kindness as weakness.
And not for the man who had taught her that even love could be dangerous.
Even if some traitorous part of her heart still called his name when the world got too loud. It was too late. That man was gone. He’d never existed. And Fiona was doing what was necessary.
The lawyer’soffice was still too cold. Fiona sat perched on the edge of the chair like she wasn’t sure whether she was meant to be here. Her rep swept into the room with a thin file and a tight expression.
She didn’t sit right away.
